I contemplated our VW. It was a sweety. Including reverse it came with five whole gears, a stylish tape deck, and a painfully apparent lack of power steering. Normally I am not one to complain. Amenities are just that. Little extras. But I had to confess that this was not the way I envisioned traveling on the German Autobahn. The car would have made me slightly apprehensive in most situations, but traveling in a vehicle that could hardly hit 60 MPH on a highway notorious for its lack of speed limits; well that gave me the fear.
Tine (German girl who is the best travel partner on the planet) and I were traveling south from Lunenburg ( a college town that is a suburb of Hamburg) to Frankfurt where we had plane tickets to the Moroccan city Fez. We had managed to score the VW of question from one of her flat mates and another friend had volunteered to drive us to the rest stop where we could hitch the rest of the way.
From our haven in the right lane of traffic, the car shook like a small boat in choppy water every time another vehicle catapulted past us moving at Mach 3. After my initial anxiety the drive was almost disappointingly easy. It wasn't long before I found myself in a battle between manners and jet lag dozing off in the front seat.
Once at the rest stop Tine went to work politicking with people in the parking lot trying to arrange a ride while I sketched out the words of our final destination on a piece of card board. It wasn't long before I found myself in the back seat of BMW watching the speedometer climb and dilapidated VWs in the right lane of traffic rocking back and fourth from our jet stream. This was the Autobahn I imagined. When our speed maxed out at 210 KPH I decided it was for the best that I couldn't figure out how many miles per hour that worked out to. Our driver, a handsome Acme Brand human, muttered "Eesh normal en Germany" from the front seat.
We never had to wait more than an hour for a ride. On two occasions we were offered seats before we even had the chance to ask. One woman who drove us worked in finance and was into role playing games. On one occasion things went sour and the game turned into a confused battle with the police who, as it turned out, were actually police and not part of the game. Another woman was a former student in the states. She had done all sorts of good hearted volunteer work in Nepal and did not seem too interested in much besides doing well by the planet. I was most surprised by the business men in fine European automobiles who were willing to give scruffy twenty something year olds rides. They did not even blink at the prospect.
Each ride and experience distanced the horror stories of hitch hiking, the warnings against it from family members, and the stereotypes of people who pick up strangers. Some people who were headed in the wrong direction would pause for a conversation, just relieved from a break in the monotony of the road.
Our final ride was from a rest stop just a matter of a few kilometers from our final destination. The highway split, one direction to Mainz, the other to Frankfurt. The sun had all ready gone down and the process was getting a bit arduous. It had all ready been a few hours but losing a sense of humor was not an option. Tine had gotten all of our rides and I was sick of using the language barrier as an excuse for being so useless. I hung onto my sign but started to test the international language of yelling and being friendly.
A couple that looked to be in their seventies walked by and started speaking to me in German. I smiled and explained in English that while I had no idea what he was saying, I still appreciated the good energy. His switch to English was seamless and his accent gave away that not only was he was a native speaker but also American.
The couple offered us a ride to the air port where we could easily pick up a train into the city and hoof it to Tine's old apartment. Grateful for the ride we took them up on it and found our selves in the back of a mini van listening to their story.
The man had gone to Germany on business in 1971. While he was there he shyly asked the woman working at his hotel out on a date. His story was one about stumbling through accents and languages trying to communicate subtleties that were often lost in translation. As it turned out, he never left Germany. It was a story one had to experience themselves to truly appreciate.
In a blurt that probably would have been best left in my head I let everyone in the van know the entire arrangement sounded extremely dangerous to me. They were all polite enough to ignore my comment.
Less than an hour later we were on off of a train and in the city and at Tine's old flat, recharging for the next day's flight to Fez.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
An Up-hill Battle
They say the worst thing that can happen to a drunk driver is they make it home safely. The logic behind this is that making it back creates a false sense of safety, or the illusion that they will always have the ability to make it. So, the drunk keeps drinking, keeps driving, keeps making it, until one day, they don't make it. The tragic end.
While I could hardly call surviving a drunk driving experience a worst case scenario, never mind the chasm in logic that suggests killing your self the first time is better than the fourth of fifth, I can certainly relate to the dangers of false senses of security. Since Robyn and I had first rented a motor bike we had done remarkably well. We stuck to a few simple rules like, only make left turns (Thailand, they cruise on the other side) and don't fuck up. So far we had only been in one accident and it had been when three people were on the bike. In the end of that one Robyn got to wear one of the 3 inch x 2 inch gauze pads over the burn on her lower leg. The little pads were as trendy as Full Moon Party T-shirts but a lot cooler so there was nothing to complain about. Accident numero dos....emmmm different story.
Separating our guest house from the pee trap called Hat Rin Beach were a number of cliffs that at some point had been disguised as hills when they were paved over and a road was built through them. However, the astute could deduce with a simple trick what these geological lumps really were: stand at the top and drop a tennis ball. If it rolls it's a hill. If it falls it's a cliff. These were definitely cliffs.
And there I was, with Robyn on the back, both lulled into a sense of false security, driving straight up a cliff on a motor bike that cost less than your last grocery bill. It was no surprise I had to down shift from fifth gear to fourth, or fourth to third, or even third to second but the bike was still dragging. Some little voice told me to stick with second. The problem was sticking with second also meant to sticking with pushing the bike up the cliff. I knew not to do it, I just didn't know why not to do it. So by my logic, which was the only thing moving up the cliff slower than the bike, I didn't really know not to do it. So why not give it a shot?
In the click of a gear the bike reared up like the meanest miniature pony at the petting zoo. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Robyn land squarely on her butt with a no questions asked thud. Unfortunately my rational thinking was still at the bottom of the cliff and I thought it was best to just hang onto the bike regardless of the fact that I was on my feet and it was standing up at about my height. The acute angles and pristine decision making cranked my wrist backward, pushing the throttle to the "hold the fuck on" position. My plastic/medal steed and I were launched straight up the cliff for about six amazing steps in display that, within the realm of my physical accomplishments, will never be rivaled. I imagined my flip-flopped feet moving in a blaze of dirt and friction like Fred Flinstone when he drove his prehistoric car.
With the best decision of the day, I let the bike go and got clear while it smashed to its side making a sound like a voice booming the word "UNINSURED" to the wind. But just like a movie whose sequel came too quickly, the theatrics would not end.
In the most touching display of genuine concern and fear for our well being, a dirt bike, that had more passengers than I would feel comfortable putting into a Cooper Mini, swung around us from the rear and pulled onto the shoulder. Every bit of my gratefulness melted into guilt as I watched their bike the moment it stopped teeter left, teeter right and dump, spilling no less than 45 Thai people all over the road. Many landed on their feet and before they could have possibly processed the fact they had just fallen off of their bike, found themselves in a down hill sprint/free fall with two white kids and a motor bike acting as hurdles just a few yards away.
I locked eyes with if not the worlds largest Asian woman, certainly the worlds largest Asian woman wearing a pink pastel polo shirt, and couldn't help but notice that she was moving at speeds that would have earned her a lane in any number of events at the Beijing Olympics. I gazed up the cliff and wondered if this was going to count as having died in an avalanche.
The fancy jig she through to dodge me, Robyn, and the motor bike further bolstered her credentials as a top notch athlete. I stood leaning on my slack jaw for support in anticipation of the next assault. When it came it was heavy. One man had the bike up and about a dozen others surrounded me with so much sweetness and care I knew they must have been family members in a prior life. My pastel assailant materialized from behind me and started in with the same treatment before I had the opportunity to give it to her.
Moments later I was back on the bike at the bottom of the hill with a number of spotters to make sure everything was going to be fine. I cranked the throttle and this time, with no passenger, zipped to the summit and waited for my rescuers to make the climb. Once all had reached the top the appreciation and embarrassment had the thank yous guzzling out of Robyn and I. The feeling of genuine care and concern was still present even after the drama had passed. We both held still and were barraged with bits of advice about how to take corners and ride the bike. I must have been told to keep left a thousand times in a two minute period. I got the feeling this was just one of the many common blunders that tourists had with the bikes on the island.
As we were about to take off the pink pastel assailant, who was actually much smaller and less threatening than she first appeared, offered one last bit:
"Remember stay left. AND NEVER GIVE UP!"
It was an exclamation point to all the care and concern of the last ten minutes. The words were no longer just about motor bikes. It was the analogy of motor bikes and life that you can't feel unless the things are a daily part of your life. I carried the incident around in my head for the rest of day but no bit stood out more than that offer of NEVER GIVE UP. Never Give Up. It is a piece of love and advice I have tried to recall each day since.
While I could hardly call surviving a drunk driving experience a worst case scenario, never mind the chasm in logic that suggests killing your self the first time is better than the fourth of fifth, I can certainly relate to the dangers of false senses of security. Since Robyn and I had first rented a motor bike we had done remarkably well. We stuck to a few simple rules like, only make left turns (Thailand, they cruise on the other side) and don't fuck up. So far we had only been in one accident and it had been when three people were on the bike. In the end of that one Robyn got to wear one of the 3 inch x 2 inch gauze pads over the burn on her lower leg. The little pads were as trendy as Full Moon Party T-shirts but a lot cooler so there was nothing to complain about. Accident numero dos....emmmm different story.
Separating our guest house from the pee trap called Hat Rin Beach were a number of cliffs that at some point had been disguised as hills when they were paved over and a road was built through them. However, the astute could deduce with a simple trick what these geological lumps really were: stand at the top and drop a tennis ball. If it rolls it's a hill. If it falls it's a cliff. These were definitely cliffs.
And there I was, with Robyn on the back, both lulled into a sense of false security, driving straight up a cliff on a motor bike that cost less than your last grocery bill. It was no surprise I had to down shift from fifth gear to fourth, or fourth to third, or even third to second but the bike was still dragging. Some little voice told me to stick with second. The problem was sticking with second also meant to sticking with pushing the bike up the cliff. I knew not to do it, I just didn't know why not to do it. So by my logic, which was the only thing moving up the cliff slower than the bike, I didn't really know not to do it. So why not give it a shot?
In the click of a gear the bike reared up like the meanest miniature pony at the petting zoo. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Robyn land squarely on her butt with a no questions asked thud. Unfortunately my rational thinking was still at the bottom of the cliff and I thought it was best to just hang onto the bike regardless of the fact that I was on my feet and it was standing up at about my height. The acute angles and pristine decision making cranked my wrist backward, pushing the throttle to the "hold the fuck on" position. My plastic/medal steed and I were launched straight up the cliff for about six amazing steps in display that, within the realm of my physical accomplishments, will never be rivaled. I imagined my flip-flopped feet moving in a blaze of dirt and friction like Fred Flinstone when he drove his prehistoric car.
With the best decision of the day, I let the bike go and got clear while it smashed to its side making a sound like a voice booming the word "UNINSURED" to the wind. But just like a movie whose sequel came too quickly, the theatrics would not end.
In the most touching display of genuine concern and fear for our well being, a dirt bike, that had more passengers than I would feel comfortable putting into a Cooper Mini, swung around us from the rear and pulled onto the shoulder. Every bit of my gratefulness melted into guilt as I watched their bike the moment it stopped teeter left, teeter right and dump, spilling no less than 45 Thai people all over the road. Many landed on their feet and before they could have possibly processed the fact they had just fallen off of their bike, found themselves in a down hill sprint/free fall with two white kids and a motor bike acting as hurdles just a few yards away.
I locked eyes with if not the worlds largest Asian woman, certainly the worlds largest Asian woman wearing a pink pastel polo shirt, and couldn't help but notice that she was moving at speeds that would have earned her a lane in any number of events at the Beijing Olympics. I gazed up the cliff and wondered if this was going to count as having died in an avalanche.
The fancy jig she through to dodge me, Robyn, and the motor bike further bolstered her credentials as a top notch athlete. I stood leaning on my slack jaw for support in anticipation of the next assault. When it came it was heavy. One man had the bike up and about a dozen others surrounded me with so much sweetness and care I knew they must have been family members in a prior life. My pastel assailant materialized from behind me and started in with the same treatment before I had the opportunity to give it to her.
Moments later I was back on the bike at the bottom of the hill with a number of spotters to make sure everything was going to be fine. I cranked the throttle and this time, with no passenger, zipped to the summit and waited for my rescuers to make the climb. Once all had reached the top the appreciation and embarrassment had the thank yous guzzling out of Robyn and I. The feeling of genuine care and concern was still present even after the drama had passed. We both held still and were barraged with bits of advice about how to take corners and ride the bike. I must have been told to keep left a thousand times in a two minute period. I got the feeling this was just one of the many common blunders that tourists had with the bikes on the island.
As we were about to take off the pink pastel assailant, who was actually much smaller and less threatening than she first appeared, offered one last bit:
"Remember stay left. AND NEVER GIVE UP!"
It was an exclamation point to all the care and concern of the last ten minutes. The words were no longer just about motor bikes. It was the analogy of motor bikes and life that you can't feel unless the things are a daily part of your life. I carried the incident around in my head for the rest of day but no bit stood out more than that offer of NEVER GIVE UP. Never Give Up. It is a piece of love and advice I have tried to recall each day since.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Bangkok
Who knew that a person could do so much in so little time that they could be so ashamed of? My first act after getting settled in the backpacker ghetto of Ko Sahn road was check out the bootleg documents a street vendor had for sale. Call it an issue of alphabetical order, but when I tossed open the thick three ring binder and on page numero uno was a journalism degree, complete with transcripts prettier than mine, from none other than Arizona State University, there was a simultaneously wonderful and horrible feeling of having arrived. It was if the universe has taken a moment to whisper in my ear "Bangkok's been waiting for you Branden." Let it be known only fools ever think that Bangkok has been waiting for them for any reason other than to play some terrible trick. It was a rather ominous welcome considering what the city had to offer. Bangkok is to Las Vegas as all the crack cocaine in New York is to a sip of decaffeinated coffee. While I have been to Sin City I have never made it to the Nevada Suburb of Slight Indiscretions. But honestly, who could be bothered? Can Cesar's Palace of inaccessible excess really compete with Muay Thai kick-boxing in bars filled to the rim with Thai hookers dressed like Catholic school girls? Designer clothing? Ed Hardy and Evisu jeans for 900...as in Baht...Yeah man, I got fifteen bucks for that. The city is the closest thing to the island of lost boys that Pinocchio did a brief stint on that I have ever seen. It is a free for all slug fest that only those with floating standards of morality can appreciate.
Of course this is not so much the story of Bangkok as it is the story of Ko Sahn road, the holding cell and spring board for westerners into SE Asia. The obscenely cheap food options and international vibe makes for a great scene in some regards. You can get your i-pod updated and charged while a Lady-Boy serves you a helping of Pad Thai noodles for less than a dollar. But all these people looking for something, whether they are chasing dragons, enlightenment, themselves, or just experiences. The good news is somebody, or several somebodies, just around the corner does have what you are looking for. "Special price. just for you friend."
In the context of a SE Asian city Ko Sahn road hurts. It is like every situation that involves sacrificed values for the ability to survive in a capitalist market. The place caters to Westerners worst taste and often darkest secrets. In the Lonely Planet a sex tourist was quoted saying "We don't come to Thailand for the ruins."
Come for the ruins?
Mother Fucker! We all brought the ruins.
Of course this is not so much the story of Bangkok as it is the story of Ko Sahn road, the holding cell and spring board for westerners into SE Asia. The obscenely cheap food options and international vibe makes for a great scene in some regards. You can get your i-pod updated and charged while a Lady-Boy serves you a helping of Pad Thai noodles for less than a dollar. But all these people looking for something, whether they are chasing dragons, enlightenment, themselves, or just experiences. The good news is somebody, or several somebodies, just around the corner does have what you are looking for. "Special price. just for you friend."
In the context of a SE Asian city Ko Sahn road hurts. It is like every situation that involves sacrificed values for the ability to survive in a capitalist market. The place caters to Westerners worst taste and often darkest secrets. In the Lonely Planet a sex tourist was quoted saying "We don't come to Thailand for the ruins."
Come for the ruins?
Mother Fucker! We all brought the ruins.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Almost an Israelite
In the past when I had found long standing platonic female friends sitting on my chest in their bathing suites or with their faces inches away from my penis, it had usually marked one of the last acts of the friendship. But in the case of Robyn, who had assumed both positions within five minutes, it was quite the opposite. A surface description of the situation paints a lovely if entirely inaccurate portrait of the situation:
I was half naked, on my back, in a beach bungalow, after a vicious party, with an intelligent and attractive woman; bonds were being formed, friendships strengthened and all involved, especially the woman, knew that there was a serious J.O.B. to be done. And guess who got to sit back and watch?
It was Robyn's drunken commitment to the job I most appreciated.
"Isss okay Brannan....were gonna get yer dick unstuck from your zipper."
It was the night of the Pre-Full Moon party on Ko-Pha Ngan, a tropical island off Thailand's long SE coast. In the late 1980s a psychedelic mushroom birthday bash on Hat Rin beach was such a success that the Full-Moon parties became a monthly tradition. The party grew in scope and reputation through the nineties and was at some point usurped by the most vile cadre of tourists who turned the event into a revolting hedonistic bash that ranks up on the scales of guilty pleasures next to watching a video of Sarah Palin pleasure her self with the barrel of a shot gun. Realizing the economic upside of the festivities, the island's business' and communities responded in a US Military industrial complex like fashion. As it is almost always good for the economy to be at war, it is always good for the economy to be throwing a party. Full Moon pre-parties, Full-Moon after parties, half-moon parties, the-moon-is-still-up-their-oh-my-god parties, and just about every other occasion you could imagine that involved the moon and a hyphen became a reason to party. Remarkably enough, sacrificing the South Eastern peninsula to the ghastly masses had a pee-trap like effect. The bad stink stayed down and the rest of the island managed to hang onto some charm of a backwater.
But back to my dick...
After retreating from Hat Rin, lame people, and bad techno the post-card perfect beach by our bungalows and almost full moon was just too inviting, and the buckets (yessiir, that says buckets) of whisky too inspiring. I went Directly from the pick-up truck taxi to the beach and found my self splashing naked in the crystal blue water, enjoying my self way beyond the ability of simple words to describe. Once my tree hugger whims had been fulfilled I hastily jumped back into my shorts, giving next to no thought to the fact I didn't own a towel, and headed for the Bungalow to change into clothes for sleeping. That's when the troubles started.
The stiffness of the zipper was not at first a problem that I thought would turn into a two hour ordeal. When I realized what was hampering the action of the medal clasp it was just a little humerus. Little bit of penis, little bit of humor...big part of penis...well, I didn't think it was too funny any more. After a half hour of fighting the medal teeth in the bathroom it became obvious that my struggle was about to become a group activity and I called to Robyn to bring the drugs. I had planned on turning my nose up (probably right after taking) at the over the counter Valium purchase. But now it had a brand new significance in my life, pants, nose, and blood/brain barrier. In my new and much more agreeable state, I leaned back and let Robyn go to work. While she slowly pulled, assertively yanked, and aggressively ripped around my groin, I shrieked along with my i-pod to the White Album. May I say Rocky Raccoon and his tribulations seem far less traumatic than they once did.
As an hour and a half passed, the sun came up and no progress had been made a new tactic was a must. Robyn vanished and reappeared with a small sword disguised as a knife. This was my cue to re-involve my self in the process. No doctor, Moyle or regular person had ever been close to my penis with a sharp instrument and I could not think of any good reason for that streak to end. I took the knife and slowly started to cut the material between the zipper and shorts. After about ten very careful minutes, Free at last Free at last!!!!
The damage assessment was quick:"I can't handle this I am going to sleep." In the morning however, there was a 3/4 inch scar that looked like a splotch on the highway where a car tried to stop too quickly. The smell of burning rubber was oddly present too.
After a week or so the physical scars have done a remarkable job of healing up, the jury is still out on the emotional.
I was half naked, on my back, in a beach bungalow, after a vicious party, with an intelligent and attractive woman; bonds were being formed, friendships strengthened and all involved, especially the woman, knew that there was a serious J.O.B. to be done. And guess who got to sit back and watch?
It was Robyn's drunken commitment to the job I most appreciated.
"Isss okay Brannan....were gonna get yer dick unstuck from your zipper."
It was the night of the Pre-Full Moon party on Ko-Pha Ngan, a tropical island off Thailand's long SE coast. In the late 1980s a psychedelic mushroom birthday bash on Hat Rin beach was such a success that the Full-Moon parties became a monthly tradition. The party grew in scope and reputation through the nineties and was at some point usurped by the most vile cadre of tourists who turned the event into a revolting hedonistic bash that ranks up on the scales of guilty pleasures next to watching a video of Sarah Palin pleasure her self with the barrel of a shot gun. Realizing the economic upside of the festivities, the island's business' and communities responded in a US Military industrial complex like fashion. As it is almost always good for the economy to be at war, it is always good for the economy to be throwing a party. Full Moon pre-parties, Full-Moon after parties, half-moon parties, the-moon-is-still-up-their-oh-my-god parties, and just about every other occasion you could imagine that involved the moon and a hyphen became a reason to party. Remarkably enough, sacrificing the South Eastern peninsula to the ghastly masses had a pee-trap like effect. The bad stink stayed down and the rest of the island managed to hang onto some charm of a backwater.
But back to my dick...
After retreating from Hat Rin, lame people, and bad techno the post-card perfect beach by our bungalows and almost full moon was just too inviting, and the buckets (yessiir, that says buckets) of whisky too inspiring. I went Directly from the pick-up truck taxi to the beach and found my self splashing naked in the crystal blue water, enjoying my self way beyond the ability of simple words to describe. Once my tree hugger whims had been fulfilled I hastily jumped back into my shorts, giving next to no thought to the fact I didn't own a towel, and headed for the Bungalow to change into clothes for sleeping. That's when the troubles started.
The stiffness of the zipper was not at first a problem that I thought would turn into a two hour ordeal. When I realized what was hampering the action of the medal clasp it was just a little humerus. Little bit of penis, little bit of humor...big part of penis...well, I didn't think it was too funny any more. After a half hour of fighting the medal teeth in the bathroom it became obvious that my struggle was about to become a group activity and I called to Robyn to bring the drugs. I had planned on turning my nose up (probably right after taking) at the over the counter Valium purchase. But now it had a brand new significance in my life, pants, nose, and blood/brain barrier. In my new and much more agreeable state, I leaned back and let Robyn go to work. While she slowly pulled, assertively yanked, and aggressively ripped around my groin, I shrieked along with my i-pod to the White Album. May I say Rocky Raccoon and his tribulations seem far less traumatic than they once did.
As an hour and a half passed, the sun came up and no progress had been made a new tactic was a must. Robyn vanished and reappeared with a small sword disguised as a knife. This was my cue to re-involve my self in the process. No doctor, Moyle or regular person had ever been close to my penis with a sharp instrument and I could not think of any good reason for that streak to end. I took the knife and slowly started to cut the material between the zipper and shorts. After about ten very careful minutes, Free at last Free at last!!!!
The damage assessment was quick:"I can't handle this I am going to sleep." In the morning however, there was a 3/4 inch scar that looked like a splotch on the highway where a car tried to stop too quickly. The smell of burning rubber was oddly present too.
After a week or so the physical scars have done a remarkable job of healing up, the jury is still out on the emotional.
Been a while
So it has been quite a while to say the least.... I have been having nothing short of a ridiculous time on this here trip that has included three continents, six countries, and a few more adventures than I am entirely comfortable with. The last three weeks I have been all over Thailand and am now in a small city in the far North East. It is a legal entry point for Laos so it sees a lot of back packers. I am in a great guest house that looks over the Mekong, but considering that I can't remember the name of the town, and Luang Prabang (a small UNESCO listed city on the Mekong that is supposed to be jaw dropping) is only a few hours away, I may have one more trip before hunkering down for a prolonged period in one spot.
Over the last eight weeks I have walked up to a war zone, gotten my dick stuck in my fly, stumbled in on a wild Buddhist ceremony, hooked up with a tranny (whoops), hitchhiked in the developing world, showed up fifteen minutes late for a riot, been in multiple motor bike crashes, and pretty much just exhausted my self. To date the biggest lesson I have learned, which is perhaps more of an affirmation of what I already knew, is that you can NEVER over estimate the value of being able to laugh at your self. Yeah, that one has really come in handy...
So I am gonna start ya'll off with a doozy. This story struck me as the most traumatic and funny of the things that I am willing to talk about. By the way, Chronology for the blog is totally out the window. It has been too long so stories are just going to come in the order I feel like writing. I hope to either buy a really cheap computer in the next few days or get mom and dad to ship me mine so I can include photos and run a much slicker looking blog. You should check back on a regular basis because after this, the updates are just gonna keep coming. Keep in mind I love comments and always want to know what you think I should be doing to make things more entertaining, improve writing etc. so let 'em fly, I know Heather will. And let your friends know. I'm trying to turn this into a job.
Over the last eight weeks I have walked up to a war zone, gotten my dick stuck in my fly, stumbled in on a wild Buddhist ceremony, hooked up with a tranny (whoops), hitchhiked in the developing world, showed up fifteen minutes late for a riot, been in multiple motor bike crashes, and pretty much just exhausted my self. To date the biggest lesson I have learned, which is perhaps more of an affirmation of what I already knew, is that you can NEVER over estimate the value of being able to laugh at your self. Yeah, that one has really come in handy...
So I am gonna start ya'll off with a doozy. This story struck me as the most traumatic and funny of the things that I am willing to talk about. By the way, Chronology for the blog is totally out the window. It has been too long so stories are just going to come in the order I feel like writing. I hope to either buy a really cheap computer in the next few days or get mom and dad to ship me mine so I can include photos and run a much slicker looking blog. You should check back on a regular basis because after this, the updates are just gonna keep coming. Keep in mind I love comments and always want to know what you think I should be doing to make things more entertaining, improve writing etc. so let 'em fly, I know Heather will. And let your friends know. I'm trying to turn this into a job.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Terminal Illness
There is no one word that can sum up the terminal disease that is American pop-"culture." Cheap, pretentious, trashy, tacky, apathetic, destructive, whack, piss-awful, ohforfuckssake, respectyourself, christwhyme, and of course, regrettable all come to mind but still do not encompass the entire tragedy. However, if the tool of the description was to be changed from a word to a place, technically the name of a place, it would be entirely unnecessary to waste a syllable beyond the two it takes to utter Scottsdale.
This debacle of a city that sits just north of the university that M.T.V. built wallows in the intrinsically trash taste that comes with the prevalence of the newly rich. The clubs and night life scene that defines Scottsdale is the place to see these untreatable victims of the American culture disease. No matter how much money these people spend on drinks, Escalades, plastic surgery, and starter castles they will remain cheap and unapologetically Acme Brand human beings who are incapable of thinking farther than their arms can reach and deeper than the piss filled kiddie pool at the YMCA. If there is anything that I am running from it is these people.
As I stood outside the club in Delhi looking at the too tight T-shirt Sphens and the rest of the train wreck I decided it was best to call Tine before fleeing the city now that I knew Scottsdale had chased me across the planet.
T: "No, You're in the wrong spot."
Imagine my relief.
B: "Oh thank fucking God!!! I was about to scratch this whole Turkey thing, Jesus! I was so scared this was actually the place. I"m trynta avoid these people like a fucken infection. I really didn't think you'd chill in a spot like this."
And Horror
T: "Well wait. It's on the 'N' block."
B: "..."
T: "Close to the bakery"
B:"???"
T:"Oh okay, I see you."
B:"...???... :( "
It's strange, I said something awful and still felt like she owed ME the explanation. Oddly enough it seemed like she agreed and gave a perfectly understandable one. Recognizing the traditionally reciprocal nature of such encounters, I went on to explain why I looked like Osama at a wet T-shirt contest held at The Mall of America. Some unpleasantries sprinkled with good intentions later, it was mutually agreed upon that the best course of action was for me to drink to the point that full value had been garnered from the "drink all night" bracelet that all ready had been purchased, and then get the hell out of dodge while she remained with the group of friends she had promised to go out with.
Good will rekindled I parked myself-alone- at the front of the crowded bar and proceeded to make all three bartenders extremely nervous by pouring one cranberry and vodka after another down my face with a ferocity that is typically reserved for billionaire alcoholics who have had their bodies kryogenically frozen for a century then thawed after the absolute confirmation that they had outlived their spouse and would not be required or expected to leave any inheritance to that gold-digging bastard/bitch.
Fifteen minutes later a remix of "Sexy Back" chased me into the night. I stumbled to an Auto Rickshaw and happily paid too much to return to the back-packer ghetto with the high hopes of never finding myself in a similar situation.
This debacle of a city that sits just north of the university that M.T.V. built wallows in the intrinsically trash taste that comes with the prevalence of the newly rich. The clubs and night life scene that defines Scottsdale is the place to see these untreatable victims of the American culture disease. No matter how much money these people spend on drinks, Escalades, plastic surgery, and starter castles they will remain cheap and unapologetically Acme Brand human beings who are incapable of thinking farther than their arms can reach and deeper than the piss filled kiddie pool at the YMCA. If there is anything that I am running from it is these people.
As I stood outside the club in Delhi looking at the too tight T-shirt Sphens and the rest of the train wreck I decided it was best to call Tine before fleeing the city now that I knew Scottsdale had chased me across the planet.
T: "No, You're in the wrong spot."
Imagine my relief.
B: "Oh thank fucking God!!! I was about to scratch this whole Turkey thing, Jesus! I was so scared this was actually the place. I"m trynta avoid these people like a fucken infection. I really didn't think you'd chill in a spot like this."
And Horror
T: "Well wait. It's on the 'N' block."
B: "..."
T: "Close to the bakery"
B:"???"
T:"Oh okay, I see you."
B:"...???... :( "
It's strange, I said something awful and still felt like she owed ME the explanation. Oddly enough it seemed like she agreed and gave a perfectly understandable one. Recognizing the traditionally reciprocal nature of such encounters, I went on to explain why I looked like Osama at a wet T-shirt contest held at The Mall of America. Some unpleasantries sprinkled with good intentions later, it was mutually agreed upon that the best course of action was for me to drink to the point that full value had been garnered from the "drink all night" bracelet that all ready had been purchased, and then get the hell out of dodge while she remained with the group of friends she had promised to go out with.
Good will rekindled I parked myself-alone- at the front of the crowded bar and proceeded to make all three bartenders extremely nervous by pouring one cranberry and vodka after another down my face with a ferocity that is typically reserved for billionaire alcoholics who have had their bodies kryogenically frozen for a century then thawed after the absolute confirmation that they had outlived their spouse and would not be required or expected to leave any inheritance to that gold-digging bastard/bitch.
Fifteen minutes later a remix of "Sexy Back" chased me into the night. I stumbled to an Auto Rickshaw and happily paid too much to return to the back-packer ghetto with the high hopes of never finding myself in a similar situation.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Culture shock Head Lock
Visiting the developing world is a lot like taking a heavy psychedelic drug. You are voluntarily ripping your self out of the ordinary and understandable. You willingly stress your body by visiting the different, unknown, and incredibly strange. There are a couple of reasons for doing this.
First, you gain something from these experiences. You have a better understanding for the world, the way that it works around you and other parts far away that are not seen everyday. You gain insight into yourself. You learn what parts of your character belong to you and what parts are impositions of culture and social graces. Are your limits, comforts, and even aspirations really yours?
The second reason: the other world is great. You like it. Maybe sometimes even more than the world you deal with on a daily basis. Every task is a challenge, every bit of human interaction is significant because it requires something above the daily intelligences and assumptions of communicating at home. In short, every minute is an adventure.
On two occasion going to meet Tine turned into an exercise in reverse culture shock. Stepping into that coffee shop was like tumbling through the rabbit hole, stopping for tea with the Cheshire Cat, getting to the other side, ready and wanting for Red Queen but just finding the kid and Fineline on the couch back in Phoenix waiting to play Fiffa. X-box controller in hand. Say Branden, you wanna be France or Barcelona? What?
No holy cows. No people staring. No food for less than a dollar. No leaves for plates. Health code regulations? HEALTH CODE REGULATIONS!
It was warm, friendly, and familiar. There was music in 4/4 time, fresh paint on the walls, and people slicked out in gear that you would expect from any number of the drab/chic cities of the US.
To be honest it was a nice retreat from the past month plus of insanity. Despite the trivia on the plasma screen T.V.s the place had infinately more class than anything that has ever existed in Phoenix. I was content. The company was good. It must have been because after a remarkably quick conversation I was agreeing that going to Turkey would be a great idea. Just for the record, I was right.
First, you gain something from these experiences. You have a better understanding for the world, the way that it works around you and other parts far away that are not seen everyday. You gain insight into yourself. You learn what parts of your character belong to you and what parts are impositions of culture and social graces. Are your limits, comforts, and even aspirations really yours?
The second reason: the other world is great. You like it. Maybe sometimes even more than the world you deal with on a daily basis. Every task is a challenge, every bit of human interaction is significant because it requires something above the daily intelligences and assumptions of communicating at home. In short, every minute is an adventure.
On two occasion going to meet Tine turned into an exercise in reverse culture shock. Stepping into that coffee shop was like tumbling through the rabbit hole, stopping for tea with the Cheshire Cat, getting to the other side, ready and wanting for Red Queen but just finding the kid and Fineline on the couch back in Phoenix waiting to play Fiffa. X-box controller in hand. Say Branden, you wanna be France or Barcelona? What?
No holy cows. No people staring. No food for less than a dollar. No leaves for plates. Health code regulations? HEALTH CODE REGULATIONS!
It was warm, friendly, and familiar. There was music in 4/4 time, fresh paint on the walls, and people slicked out in gear that you would expect from any number of the drab/chic cities of the US.
To be honest it was a nice retreat from the past month plus of insanity. Despite the trivia on the plasma screen T.V.s the place had infinately more class than anything that has ever existed in Phoenix. I was content. The company was good. It must have been because after a remarkably quick conversation I was agreeing that going to Turkey would be a great idea. Just for the record, I was right.
Delhi
Ah! This is where things went from greater to greatererer. In my head everything from Delhi to Turkey became a world of exclamation points, mosts, evers, bests, absolutes, and other such quiet extremes.
I had to sniff Delhi out. I was pretty sure I wasn't about to follow some chick to Turkey, but still, I needed to sniff this place out. It was less than an hour after checking into out plush, backpacker free hotel that I asked to borrow Jon's phone for the first time. We had just gotten set to link up with these two British girls we met in Agra, but I was a little more curious about somebody else. Less than two hours later I was on my way to go say what up to my German friend from Varanasi.
I had to sniff Delhi out. I was pretty sure I wasn't about to follow some chick to Turkey, but still, I needed to sniff this place out. It was less than an hour after checking into out plush, backpacker free hotel that I asked to borrow Jon's phone for the first time. We had just gotten set to link up with these two British girls we met in Agra, but I was a little more curious about somebody else. Less than two hours later I was on my way to go say what up to my German friend from Varanasi.
Agra
Agra marked a low point for the trip. I was tired angry and really aggressive with the touts and other folks that lived off of tourists. Agra is the home of the Taj Mahal and therefore is swarming with tourists and people who are trying to live off of them. The hustlers were wild aggressive and in response I got wild aggressive back. I walked into people pushed others and in general indulged a side of myself that I really don't know too well. It sucked the good time out of just about everything. The people in out hotel were unpleasant and we got equally unpleasant. On the way to Fetahpur Sikri (spelled really wrong) there were all types of games to try and get money out of us. I went through the roof on one occasion and got the encredbily satisfying feeling of seeing the expression on a persons face that said 'lets not mess with this one.' As nasty as we got it really was a response to what was going on around us. Tourists were running in every direction with touts attached to them. Nobody looked like they were having much fun.
Any how the Taj at sunrise was actually worth the 750 rs to get in. There were no people hustling and it made a world of difference. After the Taj it was on to Delhi were everything changed gears.
Any how the Taj at sunrise was actually worth the 750 rs to get in. There were no people hustling and it made a world of difference. After the Taj it was on to Delhi were everything changed gears.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
Orchha
It is a well known fact that cheese steaks are delicious. It is not a well known fact that cows, just like dogs, have tickle spots on the bottom of their stomachs. Apply the right scratches and the back leg can hardly hold still. I had just learned this through experimentation while sitting out side my hotel in Orchha. Seconds later I learned that to truly endear ones self to the bovine, simply grab them by the jowls in the manner of flattening a pan cake and rub your hands back and forth as if you are trying to start a fire with friction. All of a sudden I spat the angry word out of my mouth as if it was an ant in a samosa. I had heard it before I was aware of saying it.
FUCK!
Cows had officially become cute and sympathetic creatures. Cheese steaks had officially become less delicious.
My biggest fear was coming back from this trip the exact same person. A few nights ago I ordered spinach soup for dinner and ate the entire bowl of neon green liquid before I realized not only what I had done but that I had also enjoyed it. I guess that fear is off the table.
FUCK!
Cows had officially become cute and sympathetic creatures. Cheese steaks had officially become less delicious.
My biggest fear was coming back from this trip the exact same person. A few nights ago I ordered spinach soup for dinner and ate the entire bowl of neon green liquid before I realized not only what I had done but that I had also enjoyed it. I guess that fear is off the table.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Khajuraho
Khajuraho's temples are the place where the people from the World Heritage Foundation and Larry Flint would cross paths on their respective Indian vacations. The temples' carvings depict erotic scenes of positions that would make a gummy bear cry, a world class gymnast get back to training, and members of the equestrian society never think of riding bare back quite the same way ever again.
Due to my somewhat extensive research of other similar artifacts such as Renaissance era paintings, Playboys from the 1980s, and the occasional "classic porn" section of Hustler magazine I was nothing short of astounded at the manner in which women were depicted. One would have been more prepared for natural looking breasts, un-toned rumps which would have been more appealing if marketed as cheese and photoshopped onto a slice of bread, and enough pubic hair to double the cost of materials for the entire project. To find Indian Pamela Anderson boobs, Suzanne Sommers thighs and Jenifer Lopez butts struck me as, if not as exciting and remarkable as a caveman with an i-pod, at least as amazing as a Mesopotamian with an 8-track. Indeed the idealized woman of over 1000 years ago looks remarkably similar to the cosmetically constructed one of today.
Outside of the temple complex the town of Khajuraho has the unique and depraved vibration that only exists in mining towns that no longer produce its commodity and those communities which are completely dependent on tourism.
The touts that pervade India are a nuisance and the beggars are so prevalent that one just goes numb to their strife. However Khajuraho's shopkeepers are an odd combination of the two and elicit a totally unique response. They hunt you down to pull you into their stores then quote you ridiculously inflated prices, just like the touts, and then act with a wild desperation in their eyes that makes you give them all of the pity that was held back from the beggars. In my case this could not have been too much pity to start with because I felt no need to buy anything. An interesting side note is that they really will not sell to the low baller such as my self. It makes more sense some how to sit on products and wait for the one person that is a push over and make six months rent on one sale.
Onto the streets the hagglers pushing photo books and odd knick knacks are more persistent than a collection agency. I played a game with one where I ran around the outside of a car trying to keep distance between the two of us. It was a stand off that lasted maybe 4 rotations of the vehicle before the haggler ducked down making himself invisible then apparated next to me like some creature out of a Harry Potter book. After walking away with the man still in hot pursuit I decided he was just in need of some company.
The second day in Khajuraho, which is one and a half more days than I would suggest spending there, we went with a married couple and a French woman to a tiger reserve where we saw exactly zero dozen tigers. The drive was very pleasant and I got to take pictures of the extremely dangerous white blonde chick on vacation that, lucky for all of us, was safely tucked away into a different jeep. Much to mine a jon's delight it snarled viciously at the sight of my camera.
Due to my somewhat extensive research of other similar artifacts such as Renaissance era paintings, Playboys from the 1980s, and the occasional "classic porn" section of Hustler magazine I was nothing short of astounded at the manner in which women were depicted. One would have been more prepared for natural looking breasts, un-toned rumps which would have been more appealing if marketed as cheese and photoshopped onto a slice of bread, and enough pubic hair to double the cost of materials for the entire project. To find Indian Pamela Anderson boobs, Suzanne Sommers thighs and Jenifer Lopez butts struck me as, if not as exciting and remarkable as a caveman with an i-pod, at least as amazing as a Mesopotamian with an 8-track. Indeed the idealized woman of over 1000 years ago looks remarkably similar to the cosmetically constructed one of today.
Outside of the temple complex the town of Khajuraho has the unique and depraved vibration that only exists in mining towns that no longer produce its commodity and those communities which are completely dependent on tourism.
The touts that pervade India are a nuisance and the beggars are so prevalent that one just goes numb to their strife. However Khajuraho's shopkeepers are an odd combination of the two and elicit a totally unique response. They hunt you down to pull you into their stores then quote you ridiculously inflated prices, just like the touts, and then act with a wild desperation in their eyes that makes you give them all of the pity that was held back from the beggars. In my case this could not have been too much pity to start with because I felt no need to buy anything. An interesting side note is that they really will not sell to the low baller such as my self. It makes more sense some how to sit on products and wait for the one person that is a push over and make six months rent on one sale.
Onto the streets the hagglers pushing photo books and odd knick knacks are more persistent than a collection agency. I played a game with one where I ran around the outside of a car trying to keep distance between the two of us. It was a stand off that lasted maybe 4 rotations of the vehicle before the haggler ducked down making himself invisible then apparated next to me like some creature out of a Harry Potter book. After walking away with the man still in hot pursuit I decided he was just in need of some company.
The second day in Khajuraho, which is one and a half more days than I would suggest spending there, we went with a married couple and a French woman to a tiger reserve where we saw exactly zero dozen tigers. The drive was very pleasant and I got to take pictures of the extremely dangerous white blonde chick on vacation that, lucky for all of us, was safely tucked away into a different jeep. Much to mine a jon's delight it snarled viciously at the sight of my camera.
I got smashed by dehydration, lack of sleep, and eating the wrong food. I have never had my body turn on me like that with out serious illness being involved. This was just neglect. My head felt like it was split in half by a mauling axe. Never have I felt anything like that before.
So after a day of getting hydrated, fed, and rested we jumped the bus and headed for Orchha.
ps
good looks to all those, namely the big sister and Mak who comment. always love knowing you guys are around...oh shit maybe you're the only ones paying attention...
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Jon old Rowe
İ have notıced that the people I value the most tend to sort of be ass holes. Keep ın mınd I say thıs wıth a certaın amount of admıratıon and copıous amounts of apprecıatıon, but Jon Old Rowe ıs no exceptıon. Take me on my most socıal and outgoıng day, multıply that to the poınt of needıng medıcatıon to curb the antıcs, add an ımmense desıre to perform ın publıc along wıth ınspırtaıonal humor and wıt and Boom, you get Jon Old Rowe. On the road the dread head kıds get attentıon because they look weırd. Jon gets attentıon because he demands ıt. Every lıttle kıd ın hıs wake leaves entertaıned and every adult leaves charmed or offended. If you can stand to talk about jon jon jon for a portıon of the day the rest of ıt wıll more than lıkely be hıghly entertaınıng and probably worth a faır amount of the bull shıt. A travel savy head and abılıty to transfer from entertaıner to top qualıty conversatıonalıst to yoga teacher and all-fuckıng-star wıng man make the annoyıng crap seem lıke the astrıx next to Barry Bonds home run record. you make of ıt what you wıll.
To understand the mood of meals, traın rıdes, sıte seeıng, and relaxıng ıt must be understood that wıt jumped on land mınes of bad taste lıke frogs on lılly pads. Good energy got passed lıke bottles of crunk juıce and the party was thrown from a back pack. ıt was great tımes.
To understand the mood of meals, traın rıdes, sıte seeıng, and relaxıng ıt must be understood that wıt jumped on land mınes of bad taste lıke frogs on lılly pads. Good energy got passed lıke bottles of crunk juıce and the party was thrown from a back pack. ıt was great tımes.
where the F$^+k is Branden Eastwood
So its been a while and people (mom) are starting to wonder: Where the F+^'^ck is Branden Eastwood. The quıck answer is Turkey. The long one İ am still tryiıng to pıece together myself. All İ can say ıs key boards in Turkey SUCK.
every so often you hear sombody express theır frustratıon wıth the ınabılıty of words to truely express emotıons. Personally I fınd the ınadequacy a relıef. It makes as much sense to be dısappoınted ın the ınabılıty of a map to descrıbe a road. You really want these thıngs to just be outlınes. Honestly What are you goıng to do wıth a map that has replıca trees. What are you goıng to do wıth words that every tıme you say them make people go through a raınbow of emotıons. At thıs poınt I would have to put ın ear plugs for the fear of hearıng sombody sayıng any word related to any emotıon because at thıs poınt ıt would knock me straıt onto my ass where I would flounder ın a state of overwhelmed exstacy anxıety and love untıl who knows when.
Where I would agree wıth the semantıcally dıssapoınted ıs ın the general lımıtatıons of the englısh language. Over the last weeks I have felt thıngs that Webster Strunk whıte nor any other fool who ever belıevd a dıctıonary to be comprehensıve could have ever felt. İn one of the final scenes of the movıe snatch Bullet Tooth Tony looks around somewhat dazed and amazed and has one quıck line that reverberates: İts been emotional.
Quick and dirty´(WHERE THE FUCK IS THE COMMA ON THIS GOD DAMN KEY BOARD...GRAHHH WHERE THE FUCK IS THE QUESTION MARK ON THIS GOD DAMN KEY BOARD!)
İ left Varanasi with my friend and partner in crime Jon Old Rowe of San Fran sıs co. We went on a week long tear through central almost northern india. We started ın Khajuraho moved onto Orchha then Agra and then Delhi. The experience was phenomenal to say the least. Once ın Delhi İ met up wıth my favorıte German and ıt took her about two seconds to convince me ıt would be a great idea to go to Turkey. İ had some adventures ın Delhı(comma) said peace to Jon and found myself ın İstanbul. İm now ın Ankra and have seen a pretty bıg chunk of Tukey and wıll be headed back to İndıa (whıch İ love) to meet uncle Jeff and go climb ın the Himalayas for a week before returnıng home.
sırs and mams The details are as follows
every so often you hear sombody express theır frustratıon wıth the ınabılıty of words to truely express emotıons. Personally I fınd the ınadequacy a relıef. It makes as much sense to be dısappoınted ın the ınabılıty of a map to descrıbe a road. You really want these thıngs to just be outlınes. Honestly What are you goıng to do wıth a map that has replıca trees. What are you goıng to do wıth words that every tıme you say them make people go through a raınbow of emotıons. At thıs poınt I would have to put ın ear plugs for the fear of hearıng sombody sayıng any word related to any emotıon because at thıs poınt ıt would knock me straıt onto my ass where I would flounder ın a state of overwhelmed exstacy anxıety and love untıl who knows when.
Where I would agree wıth the semantıcally dıssapoınted ıs ın the general lımıtatıons of the englısh language. Over the last weeks I have felt thıngs that Webster Strunk whıte nor any other fool who ever belıevd a dıctıonary to be comprehensıve could have ever felt. İn one of the final scenes of the movıe snatch Bullet Tooth Tony looks around somewhat dazed and amazed and has one quıck line that reverberates: İts been emotional.
Quick and dirty´(WHERE THE FUCK IS THE COMMA ON THIS GOD DAMN KEY BOARD...GRAHHH WHERE THE FUCK IS THE QUESTION MARK ON THIS GOD DAMN KEY BOARD!)
İ left Varanasi with my friend and partner in crime Jon Old Rowe of San Fran sıs co. We went on a week long tear through central almost northern india. We started ın Khajuraho moved onto Orchha then Agra and then Delhi. The experience was phenomenal to say the least. Once ın Delhi İ met up wıth my favorıte German and ıt took her about two seconds to convince me ıt would be a great idea to go to Turkey. İ had some adventures ın Delhı(comma) said peace to Jon and found myself ın İstanbul. İm now ın Ankra and have seen a pretty bıg chunk of Tukey and wıll be headed back to İndıa (whıch İ love) to meet uncle Jeff and go climb ın the Himalayas for a week before returnıng home.
sırs and mams The details are as follows
Monday, March 24, 2008
circle stomp
There is an amazingly thin line between perpetrators and victims. It's a line of a similar diameter that keeps the hand, and sometimes fist, of justice from being just as guilty as those it attempts to punish. Despite the fact that society sanctions the job executioners it is still inherently immoral to tighten a noose or flip the electric switch on a defenseless person. Even the super hero role models we all grew up with, when looked at from outside the fantasy land of good vs. evil, existed in a moral gray zone when the exorcised vigilante justice. The police...do I need to even comment?
When we first heard the shrieks coming from the ghat two stories below the Waiter told us to sit down, that people were just preparing for the upcoming debauchery filled holiday called Holi. It was the second round of yells for help that got just about everybody sitting on the deck to jockey for a better view. By the time we were all situated the purse snatching and groping was over but the retribution was just starting. The Asian couple who had been accosted was out of sight and the local militia of fifteen to twenty five people were swarmed in a semi-circle around the Indian man who was pressed up against the fortress like wall of the ghat. Crying and pleading was interrupted by punches and hard kicks to the head. The blows were not the type that were just for show. The dull thuds echoed as if to reinforce what one might have missed from the visual presentation.
The scene degenerated over a period of maybe twenty minutes. The man made a thirty yard dash into a boat of packed with brightly dressed Indians who were headed onto the Ganges to release candles. The echo of kicks and slaps changed to the thud of bamboo poles as my bowl of ice cream was brought from the table to my nose bleed section seats above the event. I snacked on my dessert vaguely contemplating my moral responsibility while a Frenchmen shouted "Hay" like he really meant...something or another.
The police eventually showed up and after more smacking with sticks and an involuntary dip in the Ganges the perpictim was taken away. The response from other travels was interesting. Nobody could condone the actions but somehow felt like the benefactors of brutality. The beating was done in the name of our well being.
On a less depressing note:
the holiday Holi was a day ago. I don't think anybody knows what the holiday is about and if they do know, even more people know that that person is wrong. As far as I can tell its an excuse to throw small water balloon like bags full of toxic paint at each other. It was Awesome. The crew of people I have been hanging out with decided to start the game three days early. Just about everybody in Varanasi decided that no matter where they may be going, there was an easier way to get there if it involved walking by our guesthouse. Once Holi was over and we still had hundreds of bags...well next time some bible thumper jumps on you and asks why the monkeys aren't still coming down out of the trees and evolving, you can tell them its because your buddy Branden hit the furry fucker up side the head and it decided things really weren't so bad up in the trees after all.
When we first heard the shrieks coming from the ghat two stories below the Waiter told us to sit down, that people were just preparing for the upcoming debauchery filled holiday called Holi. It was the second round of yells for help that got just about everybody sitting on the deck to jockey for a better view. By the time we were all situated the purse snatching and groping was over but the retribution was just starting. The Asian couple who had been accosted was out of sight and the local militia of fifteen to twenty five people were swarmed in a semi-circle around the Indian man who was pressed up against the fortress like wall of the ghat. Crying and pleading was interrupted by punches and hard kicks to the head. The blows were not the type that were just for show. The dull thuds echoed as if to reinforce what one might have missed from the visual presentation.
The scene degenerated over a period of maybe twenty minutes. The man made a thirty yard dash into a boat of packed with brightly dressed Indians who were headed onto the Ganges to release candles. The echo of kicks and slaps changed to the thud of bamboo poles as my bowl of ice cream was brought from the table to my nose bleed section seats above the event. I snacked on my dessert vaguely contemplating my moral responsibility while a Frenchmen shouted "Hay" like he really meant...something or another.
The police eventually showed up and after more smacking with sticks and an involuntary dip in the Ganges the perpictim was taken away. The response from other travels was interesting. Nobody could condone the actions but somehow felt like the benefactors of brutality. The beating was done in the name of our well being.
On a less depressing note:
the holiday Holi was a day ago. I don't think anybody knows what the holiday is about and if they do know, even more people know that that person is wrong. As far as I can tell its an excuse to throw small water balloon like bags full of toxic paint at each other. It was Awesome. The crew of people I have been hanging out with decided to start the game three days early. Just about everybody in Varanasi decided that no matter where they may be going, there was an easier way to get there if it involved walking by our guesthouse. Once Holi was over and we still had hundreds of bags...well next time some bible thumper jumps on you and asks why the monkeys aren't still coming down out of the trees and evolving, you can tell them its because your buddy Branden hit the furry fucker up side the head and it decided things really weren't so bad up in the trees after all.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Goldie Hawn a German Girl and a monkey
The word consequence walks hand in hand with many names, words, and deeds. The consequences of a persons actions. The ability to be a person of consequence. When making a mental note of people of consequence there is a name that certainly, and with good reason, does NOT come to mind: Goldie Hawn. How ever, after a few days on the ghats in Varanasi it becomes apparent that there is a power struggle that exists in the hearts of the people of the city. While historically Varanasi has been a center for Shiva worship, the equally ancient Goldie Hawn seems to be giving him a run for his rupees amongst the people.
The well remembered visit of the mildly unattractive to the city in 1982 still has the people talking, and is an important tool for instigating commerce on the ghats. The typical hustle starts: "From What country friend?" I have found that answering 'Pakistan' usually does the trick if you are trying to be left alone. If not: "special price, just for you," which quickly degenerates or regenerates to "I show you picture of Goldie Hawn."
Its actually genius. You dig through your brain trying to think of who Goldie Hawn is and why this person would have a picture of Goldie Hawn, then onto 'maybe this is a...compromising picture of Goldie Hawn and could be a story in itself.'
Boom, next thing you know you are in a silk shop looking at tame pictures taken two years before you were born of an actress who looked washed up at the height of her career. Oh Shiva, these are dark days indeed.
So after a couple days of buying gifts and taking temple tours I met the person I was hoping to meet while traveling. A cute German girl ( I have gotten along really well with Germans since high school, don't know what it is, I click with Germans) who was fearless, down to explore all day, and kept me laughing my ass off from the minute we met to when she left.
A key component in judging a persons character is seeing how they interact with the hustle of commerce oriented locals. I do appreciate Jeffery's approach of not acknowledging their presence excepts for a wagging at the wrist of the thumb and pointer finger in the shape of an 'L' that is lowered to waist height. The six copper bracelets he wears adds a raucous element that I think plays a huge roll in the effectiveness of the technique. Every time I see this my not so P.C. side pushes a wide grin to my face and conjures up an image of him riding an elephant while wearing a white suite with monocle and safari hat, cursing the 'dashed natives' while taking swings at monkeys with a walking stick. While you cannot deny its effectiveness it lacks compassion.
My German friend used a kind of exasperated compassionate tone in a demand for privacy that, for manners sake, was masked as a plea.
"sir, please"
It was just as effective as if Jeff had used the imaginary stick on the salesman.
We trucked around all day in unfamiliar and mostly tourist-less places of the city that I thought I had seen enough of.
The highlight was an after dark walk across a never ending "bridge" that had me feeling like my dreams of being Indiana Jones were coming to fruition. Large medal tanks floated across the Ganges with less than confidence inspiring planks of wood bolted on top. If it had been used for light foot traffic I would not have been worried. This being India, there was no point in thinking that was a reality. There was a constant flow of cars, motorcycles, rickshaws, bikes, and people. Each seemed to have the potential to be the bridge's last occupant.
During the night crossing the headlight of the vehicles attracted a blizzard of moths and other insects. We both had to cover out mouths, ears, and keep the eyes pointing down. Every time I snuck an upward glance the headlights revealed a fog of bugs swarming the bridge. Kristin's comment "It's like a Hitchcock movie" summed it up pretty well. The only thing I could do was keep going while trying to not inhale bugs every time I laughed.
Certain places and certain people people bring a certain mojo that allows for small experiences to take on a certain significance. What I have seen of India it is one of these places, and the two days of Kristin, she seemed like one of these people. Our paths were about to part after a last minute trip to Agra fell through. We were standing in my room with the door open when a punk of a monkey sauntered in like it was his room, gave me a look that made me think maybe it is his room and that I was mistaken in putting my bags in his way, reached for my marble carving of Ganesh, smashed it on the ground and walked out.
Fucken A Monkey! That Ganesh really tied the room together!
It was a nice reminder that there is always a lot around the corner.
Been sick for a few days now. If I don't get better I'm headed to the doc tomorrow. I get vertigo and a pain in my chest after walking thirty feet. Heart starts pounding and I just get wiped out. If I am lying down everything is cool. I have had the shits for so long I can't really call them a symptom of anything and the puking made me feel so much better I almost wish I'd start again.
It'll be great as soon as I feel better. I'll be well rested and ready for more adventure. I needed the time off. Everything thing is great out here.
The well remembered visit of the mildly unattractive to the city in 1982 still has the people talking, and is an important tool for instigating commerce on the ghats. The typical hustle starts: "From What country friend?" I have found that answering 'Pakistan' usually does the trick if you are trying to be left alone. If not: "special price, just for you," which quickly degenerates or regenerates to "I show you picture of Goldie Hawn."
Its actually genius. You dig through your brain trying to think of who Goldie Hawn is and why this person would have a picture of Goldie Hawn, then onto 'maybe this is a...compromising picture of Goldie Hawn and could be a story in itself.'
Boom, next thing you know you are in a silk shop looking at tame pictures taken two years before you were born of an actress who looked washed up at the height of her career. Oh Shiva, these are dark days indeed.
So after a couple days of buying gifts and taking temple tours I met the person I was hoping to meet while traveling. A cute German girl ( I have gotten along really well with Germans since high school, don't know what it is, I click with Germans) who was fearless, down to explore all day, and kept me laughing my ass off from the minute we met to when she left.
A key component in judging a persons character is seeing how they interact with the hustle of commerce oriented locals. I do appreciate Jeffery's approach of not acknowledging their presence excepts for a wagging at the wrist of the thumb and pointer finger in the shape of an 'L' that is lowered to waist height. The six copper bracelets he wears adds a raucous element that I think plays a huge roll in the effectiveness of the technique. Every time I see this my not so P.C. side pushes a wide grin to my face and conjures up an image of him riding an elephant while wearing a white suite with monocle and safari hat, cursing the 'dashed natives' while taking swings at monkeys with a walking stick. While you cannot deny its effectiveness it lacks compassion.
My German friend used a kind of exasperated compassionate tone in a demand for privacy that, for manners sake, was masked as a plea.
"sir, please"
It was just as effective as if Jeff had used the imaginary stick on the salesman.
We trucked around all day in unfamiliar and mostly tourist-less places of the city that I thought I had seen enough of.
The highlight was an after dark walk across a never ending "bridge" that had me feeling like my dreams of being Indiana Jones were coming to fruition. Large medal tanks floated across the Ganges with less than confidence inspiring planks of wood bolted on top. If it had been used for light foot traffic I would not have been worried. This being India, there was no point in thinking that was a reality. There was a constant flow of cars, motorcycles, rickshaws, bikes, and people. Each seemed to have the potential to be the bridge's last occupant.
During the night crossing the headlight of the vehicles attracted a blizzard of moths and other insects. We both had to cover out mouths, ears, and keep the eyes pointing down. Every time I snuck an upward glance the headlights revealed a fog of bugs swarming the bridge. Kristin's comment "It's like a Hitchcock movie" summed it up pretty well. The only thing I could do was keep going while trying to not inhale bugs every time I laughed.
Certain places and certain people people bring a certain mojo that allows for small experiences to take on a certain significance. What I have seen of India it is one of these places, and the two days of Kristin, she seemed like one of these people. Our paths were about to part after a last minute trip to Agra fell through. We were standing in my room with the door open when a punk of a monkey sauntered in like it was his room, gave me a look that made me think maybe it is his room and that I was mistaken in putting my bags in his way, reached for my marble carving of Ganesh, smashed it on the ground and walked out.
Fucken A Monkey! That Ganesh really tied the room together!
It was a nice reminder that there is always a lot around the corner.
Been sick for a few days now. If I don't get better I'm headed to the doc tomorrow. I get vertigo and a pain in my chest after walking thirty feet. Heart starts pounding and I just get wiped out. If I am lying down everything is cool. I have had the shits for so long I can't really call them a symptom of anything and the puking made me feel so much better I almost wish I'd start again.
It'll be great as soon as I feel better. I'll be well rested and ready for more adventure. I needed the time off. Everything thing is great out here.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Roots and Culture to Poops and Culture
In life we rarely grow from the experiences that do not ask something of us. The lessons we carry through life and provide if NOT the fondest of memories, certainly the most charecter defineing moments always seem to be born of situations where one steps ouside of their "Comfort Zone." We this in mind I decided this morning it was time for me to step up to a challenge I had been shying away from since my pass port was stamped in Delhi. Indeed, it was time I wiped my ass with my hand. Manning up to the old squatter, trying to keep my feet from slipping into the abysmal abyss while poseing like a cather in a base-ball game and not knowing if I was facing forwards or back, it struck me that these holes in the ground need instruction manuals. After just a few more moments of this it dawned on me that at some point there may have been instruction manuals, but fully knowing what I would have done with even a single peice of lamenated paper, anything short of painting them on the wall would have ensured that their existance would have been as equally transient as conveniant in nature.
Now a veteran of the situation, I provide the best approach to the squatter.
A) Hold your bussiness at all cost.
B) Go directly to hotel reception and demand that they immidiately produce the room with private bath (read TP available) that you reserved a week before arrival.
The alternative situation involves napkins that share qualities with People magazine in both slippery texture and ghastly, gassy content. I do not neccisarily advise...but I cannot necisarily advise against.
Because you do emerge. Yes, emerge and emerge a better man (woman or child). One that is far less disgruntled by the odors of the urchin, tout, holy cow and their holy shit over populated Indian streets. Ah yes, one step closer to being a truly cultured human being.
Almost got bit by a cobra that was sitting in a basket. Later on got dragged into a parade that had some heavy Sadhu rideing around in a silver chariott, a mobile DJ in a wagon, and an elephant.
Since being in the world's holiest city I have seen two fights (one person punches another repeatedly while he takes it looking indignate and unfased) a motorcyclist try to kick over a bycyclist (while he took it looking indignate and unfased) and been offered cocaine dozens of times (while not taking it and looking indignate and unfased.) The dead body floating in the river made an impression too, but that dead people motiff is in the past.
Ghatts are wild. Went for a late-night walk with a new friend down them away from the tourists. It was amazing and helped me get over all the BS of being in a town that is over run with Gorahs (crackers, honkeys, howlies, gringos or white devils if you perfer) that are doing to tourist bit. Great experience. Visual and spiritual. Wha.
Now a veteran of the situation, I provide the best approach to the squatter.
A) Hold your bussiness at all cost.
B) Go directly to hotel reception and demand that they immidiately produce the room with private bath (read TP available) that you reserved a week before arrival.
The alternative situation involves napkins that share qualities with People magazine in both slippery texture and ghastly, gassy content. I do not neccisarily advise...but I cannot necisarily advise against.
Because you do emerge. Yes, emerge and emerge a better man (woman or child). One that is far less disgruntled by the odors of the urchin, tout, holy cow and their holy shit over populated Indian streets. Ah yes, one step closer to being a truly cultured human being.
Almost got bit by a cobra that was sitting in a basket. Later on got dragged into a parade that had some heavy Sadhu rideing around in a silver chariott, a mobile DJ in a wagon, and an elephant.
Since being in the world's holiest city I have seen two fights (one person punches another repeatedly while he takes it looking indignate and unfased) a motorcyclist try to kick over a bycyclist (while he took it looking indignate and unfased) and been offered cocaine dozens of times (while not taking it and looking indignate and unfased.) The dead body floating in the river made an impression too, but that dead people motiff is in the past.
Ghatts are wild. Went for a late-night walk with a new friend down them away from the tourists. It was amazing and helped me get over all the BS of being in a town that is over run with Gorahs (crackers, honkeys, howlies, gringos or white devils if you perfer) that are doing to tourist bit. Great experience. Visual and spiritual. Wha.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Athletic accomplishments
Hoped on the metro and went to the last stop and started walking around. I was taking some pictures of this big field that had maybe three different Cricket games going on. Cricket...who knew base-ball had a retarded half brother? A group of twenty plus kids ranging from eight to maybe eighteen saw me shooting and started shouting for me to come over. I tried to play it off like a pack of panhandlers and just kept moving but I was literally swarmed with kids saying "hello, nice to meeeet you," and shaking my hand. It was the extent of their English. The next thing you know I had a cricket stick, bat, waffle, club, smashy thing in my hand and all eyes were on me. The first toss went behind me. Being no cricket expert I thought not swinging was the thing to do. The pitcher, tosser, hucker fellow moved in much closer in what seemed an attempt at charity. Your bad buddy. BRAAAAAHHHHHH BITCHES WHERE'D IT GO AHAHAHAHAHA!!!! I felt like all that was man. That F'er WENT! The crowd went wild. The two or three older kids that were no longer alphas (or just wanted to get back to the game) immediately were pushing me off the field and wanted nothing to do with me while the rest were back in 'gather round' mode. The odds of me hitting the ball like that again were next to zero so I was happy to oblige while I still looked good.
Shot some photos at a meat market the other day. I'm well on my way to forsaking flesh. It was far from sanitary and while seeing brains and entrails may not make one fiend for a salad, it doesn't really tickle the apatite into the mood for some ribs either.
I woke up the other morning and realized, even if all goes really well, I am 25% done with being alive. It was the first thing that went through my head as I became conscious. It seemed like it was a left over thought from sleep that snuck into the world of the awake. ARHHHH some god parents take their god children to... baseball games and golfing? Yeah OK I did come out on top, but I think its for the best that today was the last day at moma T's joint. Got to walk into the chilly room they use as the morg.
Onto to VeraBanaresAssi tonight.
Shot some photos at a meat market the other day. I'm well on my way to forsaking flesh. It was far from sanitary and while seeing brains and entrails may not make one fiend for a salad, it doesn't really tickle the apatite into the mood for some ribs either.
I woke up the other morning and realized, even if all goes really well, I am 25% done with being alive. It was the first thing that went through my head as I became conscious. It seemed like it was a left over thought from sleep that snuck into the world of the awake. ARHHHH some god parents take their god children to... baseball games and golfing? Yeah OK I did come out on top, but I think its for the best that today was the last day at moma T's joint. Got to walk into the chilly room they use as the morg.
Onto to VeraBanaresAssi tonight.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
More almost dead folks
Interacting with the almost dead on a regular basis...it makes the gears turn a little differently. I got a little shook today and as a side effect started a conversation with a bible thumper about one of the thousands of things you just don't start a conversation with a bible thumper about... fatal flaw... Next time I see him I plan on singing the praises of masturbation and random anonymous sex. Drop your jessus shit on me will ya?
I'd love to get this moment of clarity that some people claim when they see something that shakes them or is on some level meaningful. This old guy who looks like an Indian version of a severely spinach-less Popeye fell asleep while I was holding his hand and feeding him. I thought it was the big goodbye. This did a job on my mind state and I staggered strait out of Mother T's, followed my nose down an alley and ended up in this half out-door lunch spot where I ate a small pile of Samosas and retired from the game of blinking for a half hour or so. It was pretty surreal. The world got distant and I got deep into the old noggin.
Calcutta is full of life. Struggling, painful life. I see the people at Mother T's, this one armed begger who lies face down on the side walk flopping his nub around for rps and all sorts of other people just struggling to get a bite and I wonder if being dead isn't a better option. Its not a lack of compassion or ill will, its just the only way I can imagine there suffering coming to an end. Its like in the Departed. Leo finally gets shot and its almost a relief. Because of his humanity and the will to live that comes with that, of course it is a tragedy, but on another level you kinda go "well shit, at least we don't need to worry and suffer through that any longer." There is peace there.
So the storage device I have had for my photos decided it wasn't going to charge any more. It was causing a lot of stress. Jeff sent me off to go find some electronics market on my own. I'm lucky to find my arss to wipe it, never mind some electronics market. The quote was "It'll be good for you." That's right up there with, "It adds charecter." The only other time he dropped that on me was when I was thinking about quitting wrestleing senior year. Looks like the old bugger is two for two. I had a great time finding the place. I asked one person and followed their directions until they stopped making sense and then asked the next person. I found the place, bought a converter that did not do the trick and got back.
Next day I was wondering around and couldn't figure out for the life of me why I was walking into this mall. Not even ten minutes later I walked past a store that was half stocked and sort of painted. In the window there were a couple dozen random electronic devices mp3 players and one red box...ah yes...India provided.
Well the city still feels safe but seems stranger and stranger. Every taxi looks like it is from the 1940s. The company that makes the car kept the same body design until I think, the 80s. There are Rickshaws... I mean that one really doesn't need any qualifying...rickshaws... along the river people are bathing in water I wouldn't wash my feet in.
Just a few days and I'm off to Benares. I'm looking forward to a little change of scenery.
I'd love to get this moment of clarity that some people claim when they see something that shakes them or is on some level meaningful. This old guy who looks like an Indian version of a severely spinach-less Popeye fell asleep while I was holding his hand and feeding him. I thought it was the big goodbye. This did a job on my mind state and I staggered strait out of Mother T's, followed my nose down an alley and ended up in this half out-door lunch spot where I ate a small pile of Samosas and retired from the game of blinking for a half hour or so. It was pretty surreal. The world got distant and I got deep into the old noggin.
Calcutta is full of life. Struggling, painful life. I see the people at Mother T's, this one armed begger who lies face down on the side walk flopping his nub around for rps and all sorts of other people just struggling to get a bite and I wonder if being dead isn't a better option. Its not a lack of compassion or ill will, its just the only way I can imagine there suffering coming to an end. Its like in the Departed. Leo finally gets shot and its almost a relief. Because of his humanity and the will to live that comes with that, of course it is a tragedy, but on another level you kinda go "well shit, at least we don't need to worry and suffer through that any longer." There is peace there.
So the storage device I have had for my photos decided it wasn't going to charge any more. It was causing a lot of stress. Jeff sent me off to go find some electronics market on my own. I'm lucky to find my arss to wipe it, never mind some electronics market. The quote was "It'll be good for you." That's right up there with, "It adds charecter." The only other time he dropped that on me was when I was thinking about quitting wrestleing senior year. Looks like the old bugger is two for two. I had a great time finding the place. I asked one person and followed their directions until they stopped making sense and then asked the next person. I found the place, bought a converter that did not do the trick and got back.
Next day I was wondering around and couldn't figure out for the life of me why I was walking into this mall. Not even ten minutes later I walked past a store that was half stocked and sort of painted. In the window there were a couple dozen random electronic devices mp3 players and one red box...ah yes...India provided.
Well the city still feels safe but seems stranger and stranger. Every taxi looks like it is from the 1940s. The company that makes the car kept the same body design until I think, the 80s. There are Rickshaws... I mean that one really doesn't need any qualifying...rickshaws... along the river people are bathing in water I wouldn't wash my feet in.
Just a few days and I'm off to Benares. I'm looking forward to a little change of scenery.
Monday, February 25, 2008
India
Since arriving in Calcutta the term cluster fuck has taken on a brand new meaning. Saying there are a lot of people is like driving through the depressing part of the mid-west and saying that there is a lot of corn. It just doesn't quite explain the situation.
My only reference point for the city before I got here was a Bat-Man comic book I read in middle school. It portrayed an ancient city that was from another time and full of these exotic, strange people. Far from the case as it turns out. There are tons of people, poverty like I have never seen, holy men, but the place is just another big city. It doesn't seem that immensely foreign.
I have always had this fear of taking a picture of the wrong person and being chased, beaten and burned by a mob. India took that fear, tossed it out the window. There are mobs of people who are dieing to have their picture taken. I went for a walk, ended up in this market and was getting pulled left and right because of this unquenchable thirst for the lens.
The House of the Dead has been something else. I call it Jeff's Shawk and Awe Campaign on the Eastwood kids. It took me a day to figure out that the bed close to the door isn't there by accident. Somebody new is in it every day. I thought they should put a sign on the wall that said "check out time is noon." So far I've fed people that are barely alive, carried quite a few people to and from showers and the bathroom who can't walk, served food and given medicine. To escape I find myself doing dishes. I think Oren should get a hearty kick out of that.
Uncle Jeff has quickly become one of my favorite people. I have met a few young folks but he's still the most interesting person around. Shame the guy can't drink any more. Probably would have been great fun. He can transition from well timed immature jokes to conversations about the End Of THE Game and other heavy such things remarkably well.
I have been on a really strange schedual. Asleep by nine, up doing push ups and occasionally taking photos by five. At the train Station and onto Mother Teresa's by 7:15. Off around 12 then exploring til I get too tired. Got sick of trying to read Midnight's Children and got a PG Wodehouse instead.
I would go into a list of highlights but everyday has pretty much been a highlight. The city feels rediculously safe so I have been just walking around in these wild neighborhoods where people are just all over the streets in various conditions of health of wealth, which seem to correlate. Photos all ready look a million times better and more interesting than 99% of what came out of Jamaica.
Love to ya'll. Keep in touch.
My only reference point for the city before I got here was a Bat-Man comic book I read in middle school. It portrayed an ancient city that was from another time and full of these exotic, strange people. Far from the case as it turns out. There are tons of people, poverty like I have never seen, holy men, but the place is just another big city. It doesn't seem that immensely foreign.
I have always had this fear of taking a picture of the wrong person and being chased, beaten and burned by a mob. India took that fear, tossed it out the window. There are mobs of people who are dieing to have their picture taken. I went for a walk, ended up in this market and was getting pulled left and right because of this unquenchable thirst for the lens.
The House of the Dead has been something else. I call it Jeff's Shawk and Awe Campaign on the Eastwood kids. It took me a day to figure out that the bed close to the door isn't there by accident. Somebody new is in it every day. I thought they should put a sign on the wall that said "check out time is noon." So far I've fed people that are barely alive, carried quite a few people to and from showers and the bathroom who can't walk, served food and given medicine. To escape I find myself doing dishes. I think Oren should get a hearty kick out of that.
Uncle Jeff has quickly become one of my favorite people. I have met a few young folks but he's still the most interesting person around. Shame the guy can't drink any more. Probably would have been great fun. He can transition from well timed immature jokes to conversations about the End Of THE Game and other heavy such things remarkably well.
I have been on a really strange schedual. Asleep by nine, up doing push ups and occasionally taking photos by five. At the train Station and onto Mother Teresa's by 7:15. Off around 12 then exploring til I get too tired. Got sick of trying to read Midnight's Children and got a PG Wodehouse instead.
I would go into a list of highlights but everyday has pretty much been a highlight. The city feels rediculously safe so I have been just walking around in these wild neighborhoods where people are just all over the streets in various conditions of health of wealth, which seem to correlate. Photos all ready look a million times better and more interesting than 99% of what came out of Jamaica.
Love to ya'll. Keep in touch.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
